


The Great Gatsby [Sanders Sides AU]

by MeMyselfandI2008



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, Sanders Sides (Web Series), The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: Affairs, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - The Great Gatsby Fusion, Angst and Tragedy, Character Death, Cheating, Cross-Posted on Wattpad, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Old Sport (The Great Gatsby), POV First Person, POV Third Person Limited, Period-Typical Racism, Racism, Unrequited Love, Unsympathetic Deceit Sanders, Unsympathetic Morality | Patton Sanders
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-23 09:17:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23009203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeMyselfandI2008/pseuds/MeMyselfandI2008
Summary: Logan Carraway leaves the Midwest and comes to New York City in the spring of 1922, an era of loosening morals, glittering jazz and bootleg kings. Chasing his own American Dream, Logan lands next door to a mysterious, party-giving millionaire, Roman Gatsby and across the bay from his cousin, Patton and his philandering, blue-blooded husband, Janus Buchanan.It is thus that Logan is drawn into the captivating world of the super rich, their illusions, loves and deceits.  As Logan bears witness, within and without the world he inhabits, he pens a tale of impossible love, incorruptible dreams and high-octane tragedy, and holds a mirror to our own modern times and struggles.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Morality | Patton Sanders, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders/Deceit Sanders, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders/Thomas Sanders, Morality | Patton Sanders/Deceit Sanders
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. Prologue

_In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice._

_"Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone," he told me, "Just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had."_

_As a consequence I'm inclined to reserve all judgments, but even I have a limit..._

_Back then, all of us drank too much. The more in tune with the times we were, the more we drank, and none of us contributed_ anything _new._

As Logan spoke, head held in his hands, gaze fixed on the liquid contained in the small tea cup that had been placed in front of him, Emile Picani listened carefully, searching through his desk to find the folder that contained Logan's information.

"When I came back from New York, I was disgusted," Logan quietly explained, doing everything he could to hold back the grief in his voice.

"I see, Mr. Carraway," Emile replied simply, picking out Logan's folder and flipping it open, gaze scanning over the symptoms of his patient, _Morbidly Alcoholic, Insomniac, Fits of Anger, Anxiety..._

"Disgusted with everyone and everything," Logan still focused on the tea, ears picking up the light footsteps of the therapist that took a seat in the chair in front of him, "Only one man was exempt from my disgust."

Emile's gaze shifted from the folder to Logan, "One man, Mr. Carraway?"

Logan felt a lump form in his throat as he forced out the name of the man who changed his life in just such a way, "Gatsby..."

"Is he a friend of yours?" Emile asked carefully, jotting down the information in his notes.

Logan stood up from his place on the sofa, walking over to the snow covered window that was behind Picani's desk, recalling a distant memory, "He was the single most hopeful person I've ever met," he explained, "It was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness that I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again," he spoke softly, gently, stepping carefully around the room, "He was like... he was like one of those machines that register earthquakes a thousand miles away."

Emile watched Logan pause his movements, hand resting on a small item that was on his desk. He closed the folder, offering a small smile to his patient, "Where'd you meet him?" he asked.

The question earned him an averted gaze that fixed itself back out the window.

"At a..." Logan walked back over to the window, "At a party..." he couldn't help the biter feeling that settled in his stomach, "In New York..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw, sheet, here we go again with the Sanders Sides AU's... Super short chapter, I know, but the next bunch of chapters should be super long, because... you know... The Great Gatsby has a lot to cover.
> 
> Anyways, hope you all are excited for this as much as I am! Buckle up guys, gals, and non-binary pals, this is going to be a wild ride.


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, first chapter, technically!
> 
> I tried to mix the book and movie together, so I’m sorry if the flow seems a bit weird, or anything is repeated—I tried to avoid that as much as possible. I also took out a few pieces of dialogue, such as any mention of Daisy’s daughter, cause... well, Pat can’t have kids.
> 
> Anyhow, I hope you enjoy reading, and feel free to let me know what you think, or where I can improve.

In the Spring of 1922 the tempo of the city approached hysteria. Stocks reached record peaks, and Wall Street boomed in a steady golden roar. The parties were bigger, the shows were broader, the buildings were higher, the morals were looser and the ban on alcohol had backfired, making the liquor cheaper.

Wall Street was louring the young and ambitious, and I was one of them. Everybody I knew was in the bond business so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep-school for me and finally said, "Why—yes," with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year and after various delays I came east, permanently, I thought.

I rented a house twenty miles form the city on Long Island. I lived at West Egg in a weather beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month. I had a dog, at least I had him for a few days until he ran away, and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.

I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Mæcenas knew. At Yale, I dreamed of being a writer—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the "Yale News"—now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the 'well-rounded man.' This isn't just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.

It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western Hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual confusion to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more arresting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.

West Egg was the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby's mansion. Or rather, as I didn't know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eye-sore, but it was a small eye-sore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbor's lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month.

Across the courtesy bay, the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Buchanans. Patton was my second cousin once removed and I'd known Janus in college.

Patton’s husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savors of anti-climax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he'd left Chicago and come east in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance he'd brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that.

Why they came east, I don't know. They had spent a year in France, for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Patton over the telephone, but I didn't believe it—I had no sight into Patton's heart but I felt that Janus would drift on forever seeking a little wistfully for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game.

And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red and white Georgian Colonial mansion overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sun-dials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold, and wide open to the warm windy afternoon,and Janus Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch.

He had changed greatly since his New Haven years, I would hardly recognize him, had it not been for the red birthmark on the left side of his face. Now he was a sturdy, straw haired man of thirty with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining, arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body.

His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.

"Now, don't think my opinion on these matters is final," he seemed to say, "Just because I'm stronger and more of a man than you are." We were in the same Senior Society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own.

We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.

"I've got a nice place here," he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly.

Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep pungent roses and a snub-nosed motor boat that bumped the tide off shore.

"It belonged to Demaine the oil man," he turned me around again, politely and abruptly, "We'll go inside."

We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-colored space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding cake of the ceiling—and then rippled over the wine-colored rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.

The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young men laid. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Janus Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room and the curtains sank slowly to the floor.

The younger of the two was a stranger to me. He was extended full length at his end of the divan, eyes glued to the magazine in his hands, face barely visible form behind the front cover.

The other man, Patton, made an attempt to rise—he leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then he laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.

"Is that you, Logie?"

He laughed again, as if he said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world he so much wanted to see. That was a way he had.

"Do they miss me in Chicago?" he asked, voice quiet, yet ecstatic.

"Yes, at least a dozen people send their love," I replied.

"How gorgeous..." 

I couldn't help but smile at him, "The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath and there's a persistent wail all night along the North Shore."

Patton smiled even wider, turning to look over at Janus, who had settled himself behind the bar, fixing a drink, "Let's go back, Janus. Tomorrow!" he chirped, then turned back to face me, adding irrelevantly, "Have you met Virgil Baker? He's a very famous golfer," he gestured to the person beside him.

I glanced over at the younger man, offering a simple smile. He stared at me over the tip of the magazine he had been reading since I had entered the room, slowly lowering it, almost as if he was getting a better look at me. He was the most frightening person I'd ever seen, and as I stared at him, something accorded to me.

"I've seen your face on the cover of _Sporting Life_ ," I extended my hand to him, "Logan Carraway..."

He didn't take my hand. Rather, he let out a fake yawn, and stood up from his position on the couch, "I'm stiff," he complained, stretching, "Been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember."

I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy looking at him. He was a slender man, and tended to throw his shoulders back like a young cadet. His grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming discontented face.

"Don't look at me," Patton retorted, "I've been trying to get you to New York all afternoon."

"You live in West Egg," Mr. Baker quickly remarked, as a means of changing the subject, I assumed, "I know somebody there."

"I don't know a single—"

"You must know Gatsby."

"Gatsby...?" Patton's voice was quiet, almost inaudible, "What Gatsby?"

Before I could reply that he was my neighbor dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Janus Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square.

Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young men preceded us out onto a rosy-colored porch open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind.

"Why _candles_?" Patton frowned. He snapped them out with his fingers, "In two weeks it'll be the longest day in the year," he looked at us all radiantly, "Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it."

"We ought to plan something," Mr. Baker yawned, sitting down at the table as if he were getting into bed.

"Alright," Patton said, "What'll we plan?" he turned to me helplessly, "What do people plan?"

Before I could answer his eyes fastened with an awed expression on his little finger.

"Look!" he complained, "I hurt it."

We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue.

"You did it, Janus," he said accusingly, "I know you didn't mean to, but you _did_ do it. That's what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great big hulking physical specimen of a—"

"I hate that word hulking," Janus muttered crossly, "Even in kidding."

" _Hulking_ ," Patton insisted.

Sometimes Patton and Mr. Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering in consequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here—and they accepted Janus and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that, presently, dinner would be over and a little later, the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase toward its close in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself.

"You make me feel uncivilized, Patton," I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret, "Can't you talk about crops or something?"

I meant nothing in particular by this remark but it was taken up in an unexpected way.

"Civilization's going to pieces," Janus cut in violently, "I've gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read 'The Rise of the Coloured Empires' by this man Goddard?"

"Why, no," I answered, rather surprised by his tone.

"Well, it's a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is, if we don't look out, the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It's all scientific stuff; it's been proved."

"Janus' getting very profound," Patton's expression was one of unthoughtful sadness, "He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—"

"Well, these books are all scientific," Janus insisted, glancing at him impatiently, "This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It's up to us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will have control of things."

"We've got to beat them down," Patton whispered, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun.

"You ought to live in California—" began Mr. Baker, but Janus interrupted him by shifting heavily in his chair.

"This idea is that we're Nordics. I am, and you are and you are and—" after an infinitesimal hesitation, he included Patton with a slight nod and he winked at me again, "—and we've produced all the things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art and all that. Do you see?"

There was something pathetic in his concentration, as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Patton seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned toward me.

"I'll tell you a family secret," he whispered enthusiastically, "It's about the butler's nose. Do you want to hear about the butler's nose?"

"That's why I came over tonight," I couldn't help but joke.

"Well, he wasn't always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night until finally it began to affect his nose—"

"Things went from bad to worse," suggested Mr. Baker.

"Yes. Things went from bad to worse, until finally he had to give up his position."

For a moment, the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon his glowing face; his voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting his with lingering regret like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.

The butler came back and murmured something close to Janus' ear, whereupon Janus frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word, went inside. As if his absence quickened something within him, Patton leaned forward again, his voice glowing and singing.

"I love to see you at my table, Logan. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn't he?" he turned to Mr. Baker for confirmation, "An absolute rose?"

This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. He was only extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from him as if his heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly he threw his napkin on the table and excused himself and went into the house.

Mr. Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when he sat up alertly and hushed me in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond and Mr. Baker leaned forward, unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down,mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether.

"This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbor—" I said.

"Don't talk. I want to hear what happens."

"Is something happening?" I inquired innocently.

"You mean to say you don't know?" Mr. Baker asked, honestly surprised, "I thought everybody knew."

"I don't."

"Why—" he began hesitantly, "Janus' got some man in New York."

"Got some man?" I repeated blankly.

Mr. Baker nodded.

"He might have the decency not to telephone him at dinnertime. Don't you think?"

Almost before I had grasped his meaning, there was the tap of dress shoes and the crunch of leather boots, and Janus and Patton were back at the table.

"It couldn't be helped!" Patton cried with tense gayety.

He sat down, glanced searchingly at Mr. Baker and then at me and continued, "I looked outdoors for a minute and it's very romantic outdoors. There's a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He's singing away—" his voice sang "—It's romantic, isn't it, Janus?"

"Very romantic," he said, and then miserably to me, "If it's light enough after dinner, I want to take you down to the stables."

The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Patton shook his head decisively at Janus the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at the table, I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at everyone and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn't guess what Patton and Janus were thinking, but I doubt if even Mr. Baker, who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy skepticism, was able to put this fifth guest's shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament, the situation might have seemed intriguing—my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police.

The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Janus and Mr. Baker, with several feet of twilight between them, strolled back into the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf, I followed Patton around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee.

Patton took his face in his hands, as if feeling its lovely shape, and his eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed him, yet I couldn't think of anything that might ease the look on his face.

"We don't know each other very well, Logan," he said suddenly, "Even if we are cousins. You didn't come to my wedding."

"I wasn't back from the war."

"That's true," he hesitated, "I've been everywhere and seen everything and done everything," he couldn't help but smile sadly, "The truth is, Logie, I'm pretty cynical about everything."

Evidently he had reason to be. I waited, but he didn't say any more, and after a moment I tried to think of something else to talk about.

"All the bright, precious things fade so fast..." Patton cut through the silence before I had the chance to.

Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light. Janus and Mr. Baker sat at either end of the long couch and Mr. Baker read aloud to him from the 'Saturday Evening Post'—the words, murmurous and uninflected, running together in a soothing tune. The lamp-light, bright on Janus' boots and dull on the autumn-leaf brown of Mr. Baker's hair, glinted along the paper as he turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in his arms.

When we came in, he held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand.

"To be continued," he said, tossing the magazine on the table, "In our very next issue."

His body asserted itself with a restless movement of his knee, and he stood up.

"Ten o'clock," he remarked, apparently finding the time on the ceiling, "Time for this tired boy to go to bed."

"Virgil's going to play in the tournament tomorrow," Patton explained, "Over at Westchester."

"Goodnight," he said softly, "Wake me at eight, won't you."

"If you'll get up," Patton teased.

"I will. Goodnight, Mr. Carraway. See you anon."

"Of course you will," Patton confirmed, "In fact, I think I'll arrange a marriage. Come over often, Logan, and I'll sort of—oh—fling you together. You know—lock you up accidentally in linen closets and push you out to sea in a boat, and all that sort of thing—"

"Good night," Mr. Baker called from the stairs, "I haven't heard a word."

"He's a nice boy," said Janus after a moment, "They oughtn't to let him run around the country this way."

"Who oughtn't to?" Patton inquired coldly.

"His family."

"His family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides, Logan's going to look after him, aren't you, Logie? He's going to spend lots of weekends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be very good for him."

Patton and Janus looked at each other for a moment in silence.

"Is he from New York?" I asked quickly.

"From Louisville. Our white boyhood was passed together there. Our beautiful white—"

"Did you give Logan a little heart to heart talk on the veranda?" demanded Janus suddenly.

"Did I?" he looked at me, "I can't seem to remember, but I think we talked about the Nordic race. Yes, I'm sure we did. It sort of crept up on us and first thing you know—"

"Don't believe everything you hear, Logan," Janus advised me.

I said lightly that I had heard nothing at all, and a few minutes later I got up to go home. They came to the door with me and stood side by side in a cheerful square of light. As I started my motor Patton peremptorily called "Wait! I forgot to ask you something, and it's important. We heard you were engaged to a girl out West."

"That's right," Janus corroborated kindly, "We heard that you were engaged."

"It's libel. I'm too poor."

"But we heard it," Patton insisted, surprising me by opening up again in a flower-like way, '"We heard it from three people so it _must_ be true!"

Of course, I knew what they were referring to, but I wasn't even vaguely engaged. The fact that gossip had published the banns was one of the reasons I had come east. You can't stop going with an old friend on account of rumors and on the other hand I had no intention of being rumored into marriage.

Their interest rather touched me and made them less remotely rich—nevertheless, I was confused and a little disgusted as I drove away. It seemed to me that the thing for Patton to do was to rush out of the house—but apparently there were no such intentions in his head. As for Janus, the fact that he "had some man in New York" was really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a book. Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his peremptory heart.

Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and in front of wayside garages, where new red gas-pumps sat out in pools of light, and when I reached my estate at West Egg, I ran the car under its shed and sat for a while on an abandoned grass roller in the yard. The wind had blown off, leaving a loud bright night with wings beating in the tree sand, a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth blew the frogs full of life. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered across the moonlight and turning my head to watch it, I saw that I was not alone—fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbor's mansion and was standing with his hands in his pockets regarding the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to determine what share was his of our local heavens.

I decided to call to him. Mr. Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and that would do for an introduction. But I didn't call to him, for he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone—he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and far as I was from him, I could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced seaward—and distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute and far away, that might have been the end of a dock. When I looked once more for Gatsby, he had vanished, and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness.


End file.
